


Memory and Dream

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom!Bodt, Gen, JM Secret Santa 2014, M/M, Missing Scene, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:52:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2848298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean learns what it means to be young.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory and Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Legendaerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/gifts).



> This was written for the JM Secret Santa 2014 exchange as a gift for Saro with a request for Bottom!Bodt getting fucked into the mattress. I went a little canonverse plotty, but I really hope you like it nonetheless! <3 Happy holidays!!
> 
> I was also literally listening to this on repeat for like four hours while writing this: [Attack On Titan OST - "Eye Water"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JxprhLynZ6k)

Marco Bodt was the first friend that Jean made in the military, the first person who Jean ever actually listened to, and the first person who really saw him for what he was at the time: a brat with potential.

Jean has never understood the concept of “youth.” As a child, he always thought that it meant Garrison soldiers who cavorted in the streets late at night, tankards of ale that they shouldn’t have been able to afford clutched in their hands. 

His mother would look on with a disproving gaze and draw the curtains, as if she could shut out the loud noises in the streets of Trost, and look at Jean sternly with her hands on sturdy hips.

“Don’t waste your youth on sin and folly,” she’d say, shaking her head. Sometimes, though, it almost seemed like she was talking to herself; and he’d go up into the attic to sleep, sneaking peeks out the window at the drunken revelry below. 

Even when he was old enough to head off to military training, he was still waiting for youth—he thought he’d find it in the Military Police. He never planned to be drunk in the streets, but he certainly didn’t mind the idea of not worrying about his own personal safety and enjoying the finer things in life.

That first day on the training field, when Commander Shadis had kicked him in the stomach and he’d crumpled to the ground, he had the option of being sent back to Trost or shipped out to the fields to “farm.” It was death in the hard sun, in reality, and so he strengthened his resolve to fulfill his goal.

There was something there from the beginning between him and Marco, even if Jean was too blind and stupid with teenage anger to see it at the time. They had the same goal, and yet it couldn’t have been any more different than if Jean had tried to separate himself from Marco Bodt.

He didn’t understand how Marco’s explanation of the sunrise and sunset made him feel; why he was fascinated by Marco’s outstretched finger as the he traced the path of the sun in the sky, describing how he wanted to stand on top of the wall to watch a real sunset, solely so he could describe it to his family.

And after a while, Jean realized that the way he felt when Marco spoke about his family, looked at the stars, smiled, or the way his freckles came into full prominence in the summer, was friendship. He realized he cared.

Marco was such an unconsciously good person that Jean could overlook his flaws, even though they existed; but later, when more people started to drop out and die during the rigorous exercises they were put through, he could see moments of ugliness in Marco’s desperation to succeed. But it wasn’t ugliness, so much as proof that Marco was only human, and Jean was no longer a child.

It also gave Jean the courage one night to roll over to Marco’s side of the bunk and grab him, haul him close with that same force Jean would later realize was one of his best qualities, even though at that point he hated his own inability to be gentle.

Marco had gasped when Jean had gotten close, his dark eyes wide in the dim light. It was early spring, just before they were set to graduate, and Jean had sunk into a world of scratchy cotton and the sensation of Marco’s body underneath his own, the slight arch and tiny gasp that was terrifying in its fragility.

Their kisses had been sloppy and inarticulate, but Jean had discovered his own sentimentality as he grasped Marco’s hand so tightly, somewhere in the back of his mind, he tried to hold back to avoid broken fingers.

But Marco had met his strength, and they’d just stayed like that, kissing and moaning against each other; Jean stayed on top, falling into how pliant and vulnerable Marco was underneath of him. He wasn’t used to being the one in control.

After that night—and subsequent nights—after graduation, and after Trost, Jean thought he started to understand the concept of youth, because he knew that he had lost something, and it had nothing to do with cavorting in the streets.

It was also because he _almost_ lost Marco. He saluted so hard in front of the pyre that his fingers started to ache, the heat of fire on his face as he and Marco watched sparks rise into the sky as his fallen comrades burned.

At least it had been meaningful. At least it wasn’t what they’d all seen as children: the long line of broken and battered Survey soldiers returning from a fruitless journey with hard stares.

= = =

The first mission ends the way that Jean remembers from childhood, only he’s on the other side now. He can’t look at anyone—not his fellow soldiers, not even Marco—as they parade through the streets in a macabre spectacle. He hears the derision, the jeers, and even sees the people peering down from second-story windows at their sad procession as they return with a small number of those who’d gone. He’d been the face in that window once, been on the other side of curtains being drawn to shut out the blood and literal stench of death from the street below.

Homecoming is not such a good affair, and him and Marco drop their eyes to the floor as they walk toward the barracks where soldier normally stay to await their fate. But as the Survey Corp. starts to outright fall apart and Commander Erwin is summoned to the Capitol to be held accountable for their failure, Jean seeks out his mother instead. 

She’s been evacuated and is staying with a family friend who happened to live further inside the Walls. It’s tight quarters, but there’s a room upstairs she’s been staying in, and she offers it to Jean and Marco while she sleeps downstairs in the sitting room.

Marco comes with him—he has nowhere else to go—and they decide to stay there one night. Eren is to be paraded through town to be handed over to the authorities the next day, but Jean can’t find it in himself to think about the future when he can still smell blood on himself.

“Hello,” Jean’s mother greets them quietly when she opens the door, and then wraps Jean in the tightest hug he’s ever felt, nearly knocking the breath out of him; she doesn’t cry.

“This is Marco Bodt,” he says softly once she releases him, gesturing at Marco who offers a small, weary smile and nod. He looks less boyish now, and more like a soldier; and Jean realizes that his mother has never seen Marco the way he was before.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and wash up?” his mother suggests. “I know you have to leave early tomorrow morning. There’s a WC with a water pump in the very back.”

“Fancy,” Jean replies wryly, but his mother doesn’t even crack a smile. 

He climbs the stairs, Marco at his heels, and they find the small room at the end of a hallway. It looks like it might have been used as a pantry at some point, or maybe a baby’s room, but as refugees have continued to pour into the inner Walls, space has become even more a premium. At least Trost will be re-inhabited eventually.

Jean doesn’t even realize he’s being embraced until Marco’s arms are around him, and Jean lets out a long breath he didn’t realized he’d been holding. He’s tempted to lie down right then and pull Marco close—who knows when they’ll have another chance—but they need to get cleaned up first.

“We’re too dirty to get into bed yet,” he says quietly, trying not to cry as he presses his nose against the crook of Marco’s neck. He can’t smell the boy he befriended in training; all he can smell is blood and dirt.

“Let’s get cleaned up, then,” Marco replies softly, not letting go. There’s a small stretch of charged silence, until finally, Marco murmurs, “No matter what they say, we fulfilled our duty.”

They walk together down the hallway, and no one questions two soldiers sharing the water supply as they disappear into the WC together. It’s a little bigger than an outhouse, with a small space for bathing separated from the toilet with a piece of thin linen stretched across a string. 

The water from the pump is cold, but there’s a bucket on the floor and two washcloths—probably placed there by Jean’s mother—and they shuck their uniforms off carelessly. They’ll wash them later, especially since the amount of filth that will probably come off will be substantial, and require some rinsing to fully go down the drain in the center of the floor. Where it goes, Jean is unsure, although there’s always been rumors about mysterious caverns under the city. He’d prefer not to think about the fact, though, that the slum-cities people whisper about might actually exist.

He suddenly feels so tired he can’t move; and then embarrassed as Marco fills the bucket without hesitation. He holds Jean’s hand as he picks up one of the washcloths and dunks it into the icy cold water, standing to rub it gently over Jean’s aching shoulders.

“Just close your eyes,” he says, and Jean’s lip wobbles. He hasn’t cried yet; he was so sure he’d know how to put on the stony face of a soldier after the fires went out and the bodies had fully burned. He was sure that his youth had burned along there with them.

He obeys after a moment and a few hot tears stream down his cheeks as Marco wipes the blood and dirt off his neck and face. It’s not as bad under where his uniform was, but Marco treats him like something breakable and precious as he runs the cloth over Jean’s body, even grabbing the sliver of lye soap sitting on a nearby shelf; Jean doesn’t start when Marco kisses his neck gently and presses close, running the washcloth down his back.

This isn’t the first time they’ve been like this.

There was a day after training one night, when Jean had hurt his arm and there was whispering that he was doomed to get kicked out, and Marco had found him in the bathing house, trying not to cry as he smoothed a salve over his shoulder that the medical staff had given him.

Marco had reassured him, told him to calm down and take a deep breath; and then he’d pulled Jean close and kissed his neck, touched his shoulder gently and said it wasn’t actually that severe.

It was the first time Jean had admitted how afraid he was of failing the closer they got to graduation, how he’d end up not making the top ten. Marco had murmured that it was silly to worry over something that couldn’t be controlled; he forced Jean to take bed rest for a day, saying he would heal faster than trying to work through it.

But that night in the bathing house, something had happened; Jean started to realize what it was like to grow up. He realized how much he ached for Marco, what it was like to truly want something, to need someone so badly that he couldn’t imagine life without them. His best friend—someone he could really trust—as he slowly learned what it was to depend on other people. The way Marco said his name though, in that low voice, is what made Jean first fall in love.

“Jean?” Marco asks, startling Jean out of his memories. “You’re all clean.”

Marco does a rudimentary job on himself, and all Jean can do is stand and watch, feeling useless as he forces the tears to stop welling in his eyes.

When he presses forward again, Marco smells like lye soap and _Marco_ —the Marco he knows. But there’s something about the tension in his body, the way he looks tired, that isn’t familiar.

This is what it is to know loss. Soldiers cavorting in the streets no longer seem like a memory, but a fantasy; even the Military Police have been tasked with overseeing Eren’s passage on his way to a potential death sentence or worse. Jean is privately relieved that he doesn’t have the power that Eren does.

“Let’s go to sleep,” he says, forcing his voice to work as Marco starts scrubbing at their uniforms. “We have to get up early.” He gives a very small, wistful smile and places a hand on one of Marco’s strong naked shoulders, tracing the freckles idly with his thumb in a gesture so tender and unconscious, it frightens him. “My mother will probably make us breakfast. Haven’t had a meal like that in a long time.”

Marco turns his head with a little smile and nods at Jean.

They finish cleaning their uniforms in quick order and pull them on quickly to return to the bedroom, stripping down just as quickly where they hang them up to dry. Jean’s mother has laid out a few pieces of fabric he recognizes from years ago; he’s surprised she brought them with her when she evacuated Trost.

He realizes she probably was waiting for him to come back; this time, his throat doesn’t clench, though. He’s just thankful that they did, and then he looks over at Marco in the dim light of the room as twilight starts to rise, a little light filtering in from the window.

The door is closed soundly, and then Jean pulls Marco forward and down onto the narrow bed, pushing him there clumsily, needy as he watches Marco lie down with vulnerable, wide eyes and slightly parted lips. There’s a small cut on his cheek that Jean tenderly runs his thumb over.

“What happened?” he asks softly. 

Marco shrugs a little, smiling humorlessly. “Something when we were in the forest. Nothing fatal.”

Jean shakes his head and then follows Marco, letting go of his own fear and following his instincts.

He wraps his hand around Marco’s wrist and stretches it above his head, and Marco relaxes into it, his other hand splayed out over Jean’s shoulders.

There’s no shyness now. Jean kisses down Marco’s neck, braver than he’s ever been, and he finally understands something when Marco whispers, “I don’t want to think anymore.”

Jean kisses him on the mouth, reaching his other hand down to rub at Marco’s hip; he can feel Marco’s stiffening cock against his own, and their mouths stay pressed together as they just lie there against each other.

“Want you,” Marco gasps, arching his back in a way that Jean’s never experienced. It’s needy, and nervous, and not like the calm even-keeled person Jean is so used to.

He accepts Marco’s neediness like a breakable, fragile thing, smoothing his hand up from gripping Marco’s wrist to twine their fingers, clasped together as hard as the first time.

“Jean,” Marco moans quietly, trying to stay quiet as Jean kisses down his throat to his chest, exploring the skin sprinkled with freckles and bruises—the past and present, there under Jean’s lips, youth eclipsed by pain—and he soothes the marks with his tongue and lips.

When he reaches Marco’s hip, Marco bucks slightly and lets go of Jean’s hand to tangle in his hair, the other one fisting in the bedclothes.

Jean pushes Marco’s legs apart slowly, looking up to meet Marco’s eyes. “Is this okay?”

Their gazes stay locked, until Marco bites his lip and nods. “Please,” he whispers, and to Jean’s surprise, his bottom lip wobbles a little.

He doesn’t hesitate and kisses at the juncture of Marco’s thigh, before darting his tongue out to lick at the tip of his flushed cock.

This isn’t the first time they’ve been like this.

After that first night when Jean had rolled over to kiss and frot against Marco, he’d grown braver over time, and he’d disappear under the sheets, letting Marco guide his head where he should go.

The first time, he’d opened his mouth by pure instinct, and the noise Marco had made was cause enough for another cadet in the bunks to grumble something about shutting up; they’d both frozen, and then Marco had pulled up the sheet to look at Jean between his legs. Jean had just blushed fiercely, until finally, they’d both started to giggle uncontrollably, until the laughter gave way to hushed moans as Jean swallowed Marco’s cock. He wasn’t great at it, but it was enough, and it got Marco off; the way Jean felt when that first orgasm rocked Marco’s body was something he’ll remember for the rest of his life.

Now, he does it with confidence from more experience, sliding his mouth down over Marco’s cock, teasing his tongue against the sensitive spot just under the head that he had learned over time makes Marco thrash. The feeling of Marco’s hand in his hair just urges him on, and he reaches down to stroke himself as he bobs his head.

“Jean,” Marco whispers breathlessly, his voice sounding like wind, the uncontrolled way the tin chime outside Jean’s old house in Trost used to blow in the breeze. “Jean, Jean...” It’s as if he can’t stop saying it; or maybe doesn’t know what else to say.

And Jean realizes that this is Marco’s version of weeping in the washroom, that Jean’s touch here in bed is his version of Marco wiping dirt off his skin, kissing at the tender parts of his neck, mouthing gently along the bruises on his shoulders from pushing against the ODM gear so hard.

He finally draws back, licking the slickness of saliva and precome off his lips—slightly salty, the taste as familiar as the smell of Marco’s skin—and he sits up to meet Marco’s eyes.

“Roll over,” he says softly.

He waits for the nod, but Marco gives it and rolls onto his stomach, parting his legs slightly.

Jean stretches out over him, kissing the back of his shoulders and pushing hair to the side to kiss at his ear.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he whispers, but his voice is tender, “until all you feel is me.”

“Jean...” Marco is all shudders, his shoulders flexing instinctively when Jean gently presses the palm of his hand there, sliding down Marco’s spine to the small of his back.

Knowing where to go, he stretches down slightly to rifle around in his pack that’s lying on the floor, but he doesn’t take his hand away from Marco’s skin.

Deep in the bottom is the standard issue oil that they’re all given to clean their gear, but it’s also a well-known fact that the stuff is non-caustic, and regularly put to “other” uses. 

Marco is totally prone, laid out with his legs parted, exposing himself to Jean, his breath coming fast as his ribs expand and contract; Jean is completely in control, and he kisses the back of Marco’s head as he reaches down to rub his fingers slowly between Marco’s buttocks.

His own cock throbs as Marco sucks in a breath, grinding down against the mattress as Jean kisses and bites at the back of his shoulder. He pushes the first finger forward tentatively, and Marco whines as he takes in a shuddery breath.

“Okay?” Jean whispers very softly into Marco’s ear.

“Yeah,” Marco whispers back, pushing his hips back. “Want it. Want you.”

Jean slides his finger forward slowly—achingly slow, waiting for Marco relax—and then when he hears a low, throaty sound, he slides it out slowly and presses in more quickly.

He’s heard talk that pleasuring men is similar to women, only in a different place; given that Jean’s never been with a woman, though, he figures listening to Marco is the best way to figure it out.

He moves his finger in a circle, exploratory and paying close attention to Marco’s reaction, until he feels something small that makes a bark of sound erupt from Marco’s mouth. He clamps his mouth shut and starts to whine, practically panting.

“There,” he whispers through what Jean can tell is probably gritted teeth, “right there.”

Jean prods there again, until he gets a rhythm going, adding more oil as he does, and Marco is practically sobbing into the pillow as he moves his body with Jean’s hand. He reaches above his head to grab the headboard, the powerful muscles in his shoulder and arm flexing as he spreads his legs further apart.

Jean adds a second finger, slowing down to let Marco adjust, but he meets less resistance until he’s outright fucking Marco with his fingers.

“Jean...” he says simply, practically whining into the pillow as he turns his head slightly to meet Jean’s eyes. His lips are swollen and his face is flushed, and Jean leans down as he moves his fingers to kiss Marco from the side. Their lips don’t align perfectly, but it doesn’t matter as Marco moans into his mouth.

He is the only beautiful thing Jean has ever seen, and even if Jean had spent his life seeing beautiful things, Marco would be _the_ most beautiful.

When he pulls his fingers out slowly, Marco seems to sigh with his entire body as he relaxes. Jean is quick about lubing up his own cock, and uses as much oil as possible before getting on top of Marco and positioning himself carefully.

He hesitates, realizing the angle isn’t going to work perfectly, before reaching up to tug at the pillow Marco’s lying on.

Marco is pliable and obedient as he shifts to let Jean slide it out from under him, simply moving in the direction Jean wants.

“Put this under your hips,” he instructs softly. Marco readjusts so that the pillow is under him, making it easier for Jean to fuck him, and he arches his back with a groan as Jean kisses the small of his back.

Jean reaches down to stroke at Marco’s entrance against with slick fingertips, and then positions himself. He presses forward slightly, teasing Marco with the tip of his cock; Marco starts and shivers.

“Fuck,” Jean whispers as he slowly starts to ease in. The heat and slickness of Marco’s body make him feel lightheaded.

“Does that feel...” he says, his voice hitching as he slides completely in, his heart pounding so loud in his ears he swears Marco must be able to hear it, “good?”

“Yeah,” Marco exhales simply. His fingers are white-knuckled on the headboard where he’s still gripping it, and he rocks his hips slightly.

That’s all Jean needs to hear as he starts to move, sliding his cock out and then back in slowly, adding more oil as he goes. After a few smooth, careful motions, he starts to go faster, leaning over Marco so that his chest is pressed against Marco’s back, one hand curled tightly around Marco’s hip with the other pressed against the bed to balance himself.

Marco starts to moan and whimper, punctuating the noises with Jean’s name and fragmentary encouragements, until the bed is squeaking so loud Jean is mildly worried it will attract attention.

But he realizes he doesn’t care—doesn’t give a damn—because they’ve been through far too many other worse things in the past few days to worry about petty, silly things.

No wonder a man like Levi Ackerman doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks of him, given the things he’s probably seen.

Jean doesn’t hold back and fucks Marco with hard, unforgiving thrusts, belying the rough motions of his hips with sloppy kisses pressed against shoulder blades when he can reach, Marco’s body rocking with the movements.

“Oh, fuck,” Jean groans as quietly as he can, “Marco, I’m going to...”

“Do it,” Marco shudders, and Jean releases with a few short stutters of breath. He can feel his cock pulse twice inside of Marco, and he feels tears prick at his eyes as the most intense orgasm he’s ever had crashes over him.

“Fuck,” he whispers again, pulling out slowly, before stretching out next to Marco and pulling him onto his side. Marco feels almost boneless and weak, and he just pulls Jean’s arm tighter around him, pushing back against Jean’s chest. 

“Gonna get you off,” Jean whispers, kissing Marco’s ear in between the words as he reaches out to slowly stroke Marco’s straining cock with long, smooth motions. The oil still on his hand helps, and Marco shivers as Jean jerks him off.

“I’m here,” Jean whispers.

Marco exhales hard as he comes over Jean’s hand, his entire body shaking; he takes a shuddery breath, and then completely relaxes.

Jean just lies there, holding him tight, pressing lazy kisses against the freckles on Marco’s shoulders, inhaling the scent of his clean skin.

They stay like that until morning, Marco prone in Jean’s arms.

= = =

The Survey Corp. has become two things: a search party for cracks in Walls, and a hard object in the middle of a sea of political intrigue so vast, that Jean only hopes when it comes time to make the hard decisions, he can do it.

Inside a dirty barn, everyone is quiet as Sasha sews up Levi’s wound, Armin is wretching outside, and everyone else is simply going about menial tasks. Jean’s relatively sure that it’s to avoid descending into absolute madness after the last few hellish weeks they’ve all survived.

It’ll be time to start a fire soon, and Jean busies himself to hunt for kindling. Marco is quiet by his side, having offered to go with him, and it’s a relief to talk to someone sane in this madness, someone who’s not lost.

Jean sighs as he gathers up wood. “I should have shot first,” he finally says abruptly, shaking his head. “But what kind of person does that make me?”

Marco smiles at him humorlessly, his eyes as soft as the day that Jean met him; there’s a harder glint, but he’s still the same Marco.

“I don’t know,” he replies softly, adjusting his cloak. “Morality is funny, hm?”

Jean just shrugs, looking around the clearing, and then stepping forward to press Marco against a tree.

“I’m dirty,” he whispers, “and I think I have blood on me.”

Marco kisses him anyway with a firm embrace, and he falls to pieces the way that Jean’s become accustomed; needy for Jean’s protection, even after offering up that calm guidance he always does.

And Jean’s afraid of losing him to this mad world—a place where he’s a murderer by necessity, where he’s learned that youth is no longer something he ever had or will ever have, that there is no privilege or structure, only corruption and petty indulgences.

Jean the soldier knows that he’ll kill next time; but Marco’s friend Jean Kirschstein is still getting thrown on his ass on a dusty, summer’s afternoon. Marco’s friend is the one who steals kisses behind trees in between exhausting runs, who finds an apple tree growing at the edge of the training grounds, who sometimes sits there with Marco to look at pink blossoms, talking about silly things.

“I’m sorry for what I’ve become,” he says in a harsh whisper, staining Marco’s collar with tears. “I’m sorry for what I didn’t do. I never...”

Marco just shakes his head, and his arms going around Jean in return. “Will you just kiss me?” he asks softly.

So Jean kisses him; he feels strong with Marco in his arms, like he could take on the world to protect something delicate.

“I’ve always said, that you’re a good leader,” Marco says as they lean against together, stroking Jean’s hair. Underneath the bloody, dirty grime that revolution and political intrigue bring, Jean can still smell his skin. The trees above them are flowerless, but they’re alive, and somewhere beyond, that wide open sky that Armin always talks about is there. “You’ll do what needs to be done.”

“I never really thought I’d die,” Jean whispers, “and I don’t want to.” He takes a shuddery breath, and finally pulls away, offering his hand to Marco.

“C’mon,” he says, giving a tired smile, “we have to go back. We’re not kids anymore.”

Marco smiles very subtly in return and accepts Jean’s hand, stepping away from the tree and brushing off his uniform. “Yeah,” he agrees softly. They look at each other for a moment, and Marco reaches up to run his thumb gently over Jean’s cheek. “Maybe that’s just being human.” He says with a shrug and drops his hand. “Sure isn’t what we thought, huh?”

Jean closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, replying softly, “No.”

= = = 

Hitch is the exact type of person that Jean probably would’ve befriended had he joined the Military Police; and Marlowe is the type of person that would’ve been attracted to someone like Marco immediately.

But he’s swayed nonetheless by Marlowe’s resolve to join their cause; there’s not much left for anyone these days in the Military Police and things just keep getting worse. The thought of Marco—the only one left who seems to have the same morals he possessed even during their training days—getting involved in something so treacherous makes Jean feel sick. Marco is more than capable of taking care of himself; but there’s something there Jean needs to protect.

The days seem to become stranger as time passes, and reality seems less real. Everything is disintegrating except his friendships; but at least he has that, and Marco, who remembers him for who he was and still believes in something he could be.

Jean dreams one night as Marco lies nearby about what life would have been like for them in the Military Police, what it’d probably been like for the last hundred years before the Titans reappeared. Maybe they’d sit around a table, playing cards and being silly. They’d wear those unicorn emblems that Marco had so desired in their trainee days.

But the dream shifts suddenly, and they both grow old very quickly; it’s like watching years pass in hours. Jean tries to change the visions back into what he wanted as the child behind the drawn curtains, as the boy on the training grounds in the kicked-up dust, a world always made brighter by Marco, apple blossoms, and a few truths that always cut through sorrow or fear.

But this world becomes just as the dark as the one they live in now: Jean drinks too much like his absent father, and Marco starts to change as they see just how deep the corruption goes. There in the dream, just as in real life, there is deceit so deep amongst humanity that there’s no escape. There’s no way to stop Marco in this world from becoming obsessive about his conspiracy theories. Maybe he and Marlowe get taken captive and tortured by the Wall Cult or the Military Police. Maybe Jean is too drunk to survive the Titan attack during the mysterious breach that remains unsolved. 

In this dream, they’re both lost; and in this dream, their ends are both unseemly.

Better that things have gone the way they have maybe; better now that he knows it was never avoidable, that this hellish world was the one they were both born into, but they found each other and a few people who aren’t monsters by pure luck. All of his comrades here right now, some of them friends—Sasha, Connie, Armin, Mikasa, and even Commander Levi—are the ones he’s willing to die for, because it’s the type of justice that he’s realizing is rare. It’s the conviction of the pure at heart—something Marco taught him, even if they were childish ideals.

When Jean wakes up, there are tears on his face, and he looks over to where Marco has been sleeping beside him, but he’s missing.

He sits up in surprise, glancing over at Marlowe and Hitch suspiciously, but they seem to be in the dead of sleep. 

The door is slightly ajar, though, and he walks quietly outside to find Armin sitting there on the ground, looking up at the sky with a blank expression where he’s on watch with a rifle.

“Jean,” Armin greets, shifting to look up. “What’s wrong?”

Jean yawns and blinks at him, stretching slightly. “Have you seen Marco?” he asks. “I woke up and he’s gone.”

Armin just looks at him for a minute, unspeaking, and they stare at each other. His voice is careful as he replies, “You were good friends, right?”

Jean blinks at him and frowns slightly with a shrug. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Uh, by the way...” He looks down and takes a deep breath, remember his dream. “I said it before,” he says quietly, “but next time, I’ll do what I need to. Thank you for saving my life.”

Armin takes a deep breath, looking back up at the sky, and then gives a curt nod.

“You know,” he remarks, pointing up at a cluster of stars, “my grandfather used to say that those formations mean something. You know,” he finishes, dropping his hand and laughing weakly, “like fate.”

“Fate,” Jean grunts derisively. He shakes his head dismissively, but then asks again, worry suddenly spiking in his gut. “You didn’t answer me,” he repeats, staring anxiously out into the dark trees. “Have you seen Marco?”

“Jean,” Armin says gently, “why don’t you get some sleep?”

“Why?”

Armin stands up abruptly, setting down the rifle; there are tears in his eyes, and he grabs Jean’s shoulders roughly.

“Marco has been dead for nearly a year, Jean. He died in the battle of Trost. You put his body on the pyre.” There are tears in Armin’s eyes, but they don’t fall. He shakes his head, then shakes Jean's shoulders slightly, almost desperate. “What are you talking about?”

Jean’s eyes go wide, and he loses the ability to breathe; Armin has lost his mind, and he shakes his head.

“You’re losing it, Armin,” he says, wrenching away. “What’s next? That you can transform into a Titan?”

“Jean,” Armin repeats softly, “sometimes I hear you talking to yourself. I always thought...” He shakes his head. “Did you think he was here?”

Jean shakes his head, tears falling unbidden down his face. “No,” he says, “we...” 

_Kissed, touched, talked about the past—just now._

Marco died in Trost.

“They said that people can have their memories changed around, didn’t they?” Jean cries, holding onto the front of Armin’s shirt, tears burning his eyes. “It’s a conspiracy. Everything is a conspiracy.” 

Armin shakes his head and gently moves Jean’s hands, pushing them back toward Jean. “Marco was good,” he says simply. “He didn’t have to see any of this.” 

Jean just shakes his head; he’s not sure what’s been a dream, what hellish world he’s truly in. 

“We are no longer good people,” Armin says softly, interrupting Jean’s thoughts. “But if this is what being a monster means...” He shrugs a little, as if simply accepting it. “Try to get some sleep,” he repeats.

Jean stares down at his hands, opening his palms slowly where he could’ve sworn Marco’s hand was entwined with his that same day; and he realizes he hasn’t felt that gentle grip in a long time.

He doesn’t dream again, and Armin doesn’t meet his eyes the next day; but Jean does meet Armin’s, and he looks more heartened when Jean gives a nod.

= = =

Jean thinks of a story Eren once told a few of them during training; he’d scoffed at the time, but listened anyway, purely out of interest.

Eren talked about dreaming terrible things—distant visions of death, Titans, and years passing, strange experiences—and waking up abruptly under a tree in the sun.

It made Jean think more than he expected, and eventually, it terrified him. That maybe everything was a matter of perception, that maybe the world wasn’t real.

He thinks it as he feels a sharp pain in his side, and he feels someone grasping his hand hard, saying something urgent; but he can’t make it out through the fuzzy hearing, like a pane of glass obscured by condensation after rain.

The last thing he hears is “Commander Kirschstein...” before it fades away softly, and for the first time in his life, he doesn’t fight against being pushed in a specific direction.

Jean remembers Eren’s story, and he thinks that maybe everything is a dream; maybe this is just the boy in the attic behind the drawn curtains, dreaming of silly things like playing cards and drinking, watching young soldiers cavorting in the street.

He wakes up to a bright morning, and there’s Marco next to him again, still clean from the water pump the night before.

On a nearby table, it strikes him as strange that an apple blossom has been stuck into a small glass, since it’s not the right season.

But he pays it no heed and smiles, pushing his face against Marco’s neck and smoothing his hand down over Marco’s naked back.

He feels content; he hasn’t wasted his youth.


End file.
